


Stalemate

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [13]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Childhood Relationships, F/M, Family Dynamics, Heartbreak, Quote-inspired, Rude Awakenings, The Riddler - Freeform, Unrequited Love, life transitions, mystery novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 15:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "Our parting was like a stalemate: neither of us won, yet both of us lost.  And worse still...that unshakable feeling that nothing was ever really finished."For Joan Leland, life has never promised consistency.  Except Edward.  Somehow, against all odds, there was always Edward Nygma.





	Stalemate

Never the most coordinated when apart, the cousins become a collective bull in a china shop when together. All of them – Lacy, Jordan, Kyson, Barney, Michael, Shauna, Tyler, and Edwin – converge on the buffet before the adults have a hope of first plate. By the time everyone else picks from the leftovers, the youths are digging into their meal like it might be their last.

“One would think you aren’t fed six times a day at home.” Joan remarks, tone dry and without real amusement. It shows her age terribly (as though thirty-nine deems her an antiquity) but she is not above reminding the lot that she suffered nights of broke-college-student-cuisine, otherwise known as Ramen, for the better part of three years before the blessing of an adequate kitchen and the luxury of working only two jobs graced her existence.

“Don’t be so stingy, Cousin Joan.” Lacy waves a hand, “Besides, we need all our energy for the bookstore!”

Joan blinks, “The bookstore.” She repeats, emphasizing the deadpan tone to communicate how absurd that sentence sounds. “Will you be staying through the winter?”

“She doesn’t know about today!” Barney shoots at his sister, “She only reads smart-people-books!”

“Something YOU could stand to read more of.” Lacy fires back, then turns attention once more to Joan, “Today’s the release of ‘P for Pandora’, Cousin! It’s Enigma’s latest – we’ve been waiting a whole year for it to come out!!”

“…Enigma? That’s not an author, sweetheart; that’s a word to describe someone who is—”

“—Mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand!” Shauna happily chimes in from the other side of the table, “That’s at the front of all his books!”

“You don’t know it’s a ‘he’, Shauna!” Lacy interrupts, “A girl could write just as well!”

“A girl wouldn’t go by a name like that, Lacy-Doily!”

“DON’T call me that!”

At the head of the table, Joan’s father barks out a command for order in the court (so to speak) and, for good measure, threatens the youth with no dessert. The latter has long proven to be a sure-fire way to restore peace, especially when it is a known fact that the head of the family pays for the meal – which means he dictates when the meal stops. Final course of sweets is strictly dependent upon whether behavior is up to his standards.

“Why don’t you come with us to the bookstore, Cousin?” Edwin (or, Eddie, as he prefers) speaks up from her left side, “You like books, and the store should have the first of the series.”

“It’s a series?”

He nods and fishes a volume out of his backpack to present for her consideration. Eddie, of all the cousins, is far too much like another ‘Ed’ with whom Joan is familiar: his backpack rarely leaves his side, and it is always guaranteed to hold at least three books. This one bears the title of ‘A for Anomaly’ in glossed letters (a rather brilliant shade of green, she must say) and depicts a dark corridor stretched well off the cover page; a single light beams forward from places unknown, and the shadow is in the artful but physically impossible shape of a question mark.

Her eyes drop to the bottom-right corner of the cover, and her belly performs an unnatural flip. Lacy was right about the name, but it’s written out a little differently than expressed through spoken word:

_E. Nigma_

***

The bookstore is a madhouse, mostly of teens and young adults, but Joan spots more than a few adults helping themselves to the shelves. Store clerks are in a frenzy trying to maintain order. It’s a lost cause: the only other time a retail business reaches comparable levels of anarchy is around the holidays.

Michael, with the lanky build and height which made him top pick for the basketball team six years in a row, is elected to be the group’s representative. He sweeps ten or twelve copies off the top shelf, then turns around and makes a mad dash out of the throng with his prize bulked up between both arms and under his chin. He returns, heralded as a hero, and passes out the spoils of his venture.

“Here, Cousin,” he says cheerfully, “got you one too. Never too late to start collecting. The others’ll be in the Mystery section, over there.” He points in the general direction, then joins the rest in pouring over the first few pages with unbridled excitement.

Joan takes her bequest and makes a leisurely path to the oak-shelved sections stretching ahead: Teen Romance…Young Adult…Historical Fiction…Mystery.

She makes a left turn into the named section and finds she is not alone. “Celeste?”

It is unlikely Joan would recognize the girl, were it not for the pictures Captain Gordon proudly keeps in his precinct office; she has paid him visits at random over the past three years when he requests her professional opinion on an arrestee, and she has enjoyed a cup of coffee with Dr. Thompkins more than once. Celeste is often a topic of conversation with the latter, a proud unofficial ‘grandmother’ who delights in recounting how much little Barbara loves growing up with her big sister and older niece. The dynamics in that family make the Leland tree seem neat and orderly, but for all else that Iris Volkov Zsasz’s family may be, they certainly do not want for their share of sanity as Joan’s does.

The girl – though, not for much longer; if Joan’s memory serves correctly, she’s quite nearly (if not already) thirteen years old – pauses at the sound of her name and then turns to give Joan attention. With her facing full-frontal like this, the resemblance is much easier to identify: though Celeste lacks her mother’s velvet-black hair, the piercing blue of her eyes is very much the same. “Dr. Leland,” she answers in a pleasantly polite tone, “my apologies – I didn’t see you standing there.”

“No apology needed.” Joan waves a hand lightly, then drops eyes to the book – or rather, books cradled in Celeste’s arms and encircling her feet on the floor. “I see the store enjoys your business.” She keeps her tone light, with humor, lest the girl perceive lacking manners.

It works: Celeste’s petal-pink lips quirk in amusement. “These,” she nudges the floor pile with her foot, “are for school. This is just to amuse myself. I don’t need to buy Godpapa’s books; I always get first copies.”

Godpapa…Joan feels her humor falter for reasons she can’t entirely name; consequently, the smile loses some of its natural curve and becomes forced, “Is your godfather doing well, then? I imagine he must be, with all this attention to his books.” The audible dose of jealousy makes her inwardly cringe and hope the girl doesn’t pick up on it.

“Oh, Godpapa barely notices.” Celeste puts the books neatly back in their proper place, then bends down to gather the rest of her selection, “He’s always too busy working on his next book. He has three of them going right now, all at the same time.”

That sounds so very much like the Edward Nygma she knows and— “Do you help him write?” Joan asks, before she can let her thoughts create trouble.

“Sometimes.” Celeste smiles fondly, “It isn’t as though he needs much of my help.”

Joan opens her mouth to make a comment of which she rapidly loses track, because she just now notices some of the titles to Celeste’s soon-to-be purchases: one volume on Neuropsychology; two or three on Forensic Psychology; and at least three slim volumes on Behavioral-Cognitive Therapy. “…Light reading?” she, again, passes it off as a joke. She is a psychiatrist, has always been even when she didn’t bear the title as a college intern at a girls’ home; if there was one lesson Iris DeLaine put into practice, it’s that you will never get what you want by invasive probing. Even at thirteen, that girl could put people in their place as soon as they started poking around. There is no evidence to suggest her daughter would not be of the same nature.

“Research.” Celeste answers, apparently unbothered by the question, “A theory I’d like to explore before I get to the university.”

Joan blinks. “Celeste, you’re thirteen.”

“And if I am going to be accepted into the Psychology program, I need to be the best.” She answers as though it is an obvious fact, “And I am going to be accepted into the Psychology program, so I will be the best long before then.” She adjusts her burden, then nods at the bookshelf, “You should get some of Godpapa’s books. I’ll let him know I saw you. Take care!”

Joan watches her stroll up to the register, then looks back to the shelf. Edward at least works a consistent theme with his book designs: the same neon-green question mark is present in some way on every single cover. Letting her curiosity win out, she takes one book at random (‘B is for Bewilder’) and skims the back cover:

_Three separate cases. Three different methods, suspects, victims, and theories. No one sees the connection – except Captain Jordan Games._

_Amid skepticism from his fellow officers, Captain Games seeks the one person who won’t think him a fool: his newly acquired resource and confidant, a man who wears mystery on his sleeve and in his name._

_The Riddler is back on the case._

She’s hooked enough to skim the first few pages. Thirty minutes later, she’s at the front register with the first ten books and her credit card at the ready.

***

“Grandpa!!” Celeste launches herself off the front step and into Jim’s arms, “I thought you would be late!” the fact it’s still an hour before dinner reservations at the Volkov Manor leaves no imprint on her accusation.

“Blame your grandmother.” Jim answers, adjusting her on his waist and kissing her cheek. She’ll soon be too tall for this, but he’s high-and-determined to carry his granddaughter as long as the laws of physics permit it.

“Oh, right.” Lee rolls her eyes, “Because I’m the one who couldn’t decide on what tie to wear.”

“You could’ve helped.”

“My apologies, sweetheart.” Lee quietly closes the door behind the small group and helps Barbara squirm out of her coat, “My priorities must be completely off – trying to get our daughter dressed instead of you.”

Celeste giggles, as she often does, at the banter. “Come here, Barbara.” She opens her arms for the younger girl, gives a proper hug, then tugs her toward the kitchen, “Let’s go help Butch.”

“I thought I heard your melodious tones.” Edward strolls around the corner, looking quite dressed for the occasion in pressed trousers and starched white dress shirt. The cuff links, emeralds encased in gold, gleam at each wrist to match a tiepin in the stripe of dark purple down his front. “Lee,” he kisses her hand, then extends one for Jim to shake with a similar greeting.

“Congratulations on your new release.” Lee says pleasantly, as the three of them take a leisurely stroll through the foyer, “I hear it’s going off the shelves like hotcakes.”

Ed waves a hand; if there is one point on which he can be counted to have modesty, it’s the success of his publications. Likely because he’s too busy always thinking about new stories to work on.

“On that note, Ed,” Jim says, giving the man such a look that Ed knows either a scolding or sassy quip is forthcoming, “the unveiled descriptions of officer incompetence at the GCPD stop now.”

“That’s a rather vast overgeneralization, Jim.” Ed says mildly, “After all, your competence never comes into question.”

“And I suppose Detective Barney Hall, the veteran detective who never met a donut he didn’t like and a report he didn’t shove off on someone else, bears no resemblance to Harvey Bullock.”

“Certainly not.” The tall man sniffs, “Detective Hall is a lumbering mass of fat and idiocy who never tucks his shirt in and can’t be bothered to perform with a modicum of efficiency at his profession. Detective Bullock always has his shirt tucked in.”

Jim gives him a dry look, but then Iris appears on the stairs and Ed migrates to escort her into the dining room. According to the brief phone conversation Jim had with his daughter this morning, Zsasz will be joining them later in the meal. Probably in time for the main course, if they’re having steak. The man enjoys his red meat just a little too much for comfort.

Indeed, right on with predictions, Zsasz graces the dining room with his presence as Butch is presenting the main dish and adjacent trimmings. Celeste announces his arrival with a delighted cry of ‘Daddy!’ before leaving her seat for his waiting embrace. The (semi) retired assassin is in an uncommonly good mood, which Jim elects to just ignore and carry on the dinner conversation.

***

Before the week is out, Joan finishes eight of the ten books and only sacrifices her desire to sleep or eat. It was never a secret in high school or college that Edward was brilliant; his essays were always masterfully written, even if she could only read snippets out of his narrow and occasionally cramped print, and he occasionally dabbled in a writing class just for fun (as though he didn’t have anything else to do with a full course load and working full-time at the campus bookstore). Still, there is something uncommonly extraordinary about his ability to tell a story that has readers on the edge of their seat (herself absolutely included) from the first to last page.

For Joan, more fascinating is the star of this show: the man who calls himself ‘The Riddler’. It almost sounds like the name belonging to a graphic novel’s antagonist, and for her part, Joan can never completely decide if he, the Riddler, is for good or for bad. Perhaps neither; after reading the first eight volumes, she is inclined to think this man is just for himself. He seems to have genuine respect for Captain Games (three guesses as to which police captain that character is based…) but none for the captain’s peers. His insults, however elegantly veiled, are still precisely that: direct and unashamed criticisms. It must be rather cleansing for Edward to write this way; she knows he left the precinct with his share of bitterness towards some of the officers. Perhaps Joan should consider implementing writing therapy with her clients.

However, there is one character absent from his writings: a woman. Specifically, a character bearing any degree of resemblance to Joan herself.

She isn’t mentioned anywhere in his stories. Not even as a footnote. She’d even take a role as a villain, if it meant Ed paid her a single bit of mind in creating the Riddler’s world, but there is nothing. Joan Leland, in any form, does not exist in this world.

So…is this it, then? From their first meeting on the playground, all those years ago, Joan just assumed she and Edward would exist in the same world. Through the disagreements with family, the conflicts between each other, and every other obstacle, she and Ed have always drifted back together. A magnetic pull, she often thought it, which would stretch infinitely but never break. He threw himself into work. She let herself humor a mother’s insistence of the intimate company of other men. But they would always find each other again; it is, has always been, the way of their relationship. Why, she even remembers a blind date which was doomed from the start and ended early, but the evening was hardly a wash: she bought take out, picked up ice cream from the convenience store, and spent hours with Edward on that ratty old couch in their apartment, laughing shamelessly over every detail of the disastrous affair. In turn, she could be counted on to humor Ed’s rants when it came to the incompetency of various professors; when the situation called for it, she would offer a small dose of humility to keep the man’s ego in check, but more often than not she was in complete agreement with his assessment and found quite a bit of humor in his caricatured presentations of the offensive party.

She can only assume her role in this recent separation was the catalyst for so profound a separation. She let it go on much too long, without offering an olive branch in the form of cherry turnovers or books. She should have called, should have visited sooner, should have…

…could have, should have, did not.

And now, she’s on the other side of the glass: a silent observer as he recreates himself. E. Nigma, the beloved author for youth and adults alike, replaces the Edward Nygma of childhood. He will go on to publish a hundred, a thousand, a million more volumes of the same. He will be lavished upon by fans, implored for autographs, and land himself some Hollywood contract where he’ll meet some lovely glamor model. She’ll be beautiful and funny and flawless; they’ll marry on the beach, honeymoon in Europe, and have a full house of children.

And Joan will be the same, eternally so: pulled ten-thousand ways by patients and parents and family until she finally rips apart. When she does, finally, there will be no one to sew her back together.

The one man who always held the needle and thread is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I took creative liberties with the Riddler's character here. I only ask that if this isn't to your personal taste, please keep the flames extinguished. I'm looking for constructive criticism only. Thank you in advance. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Still just playing in the sandbox.


End file.
